Safety Catch
by blinkblink
Summary: Snake knows exactly how dangerous he is. So he begins to build himself a safety catch. SnakexOtacon.


Disclaimer: Don't own MGS, characters, or really much of anything.

Snake is a weapon. He knows this. He's not a perfect weapon, and he knows this too. He wouldn't be insulted if you compared him to a nuke, the kind of weapon which is kept to be flaunted so it won't be used, but he would think it an incorrect comparison. He wouldn't be insulted if you compared him to a concealed gun, the kind of weapon which is taken precisely to be used in secret, but he would think it much closer to the mark.

Although he didn't always, Snake knows that he was created to be a weapon, the best weapon possible. This doesn't bother him. Weapons don't have existential angst. They might understand it, they might even sympathise with it, but they don't _have_ any. He is what he was created, raised, and trained to be. That's the way it is.

Snake knows there is no such thing as the perfect weapon. He doubts there is any such thing as _perfect _at all, but if there is, he knows he will never attain it. He does not try. He is not naïve enough to think there is one road to madness, and suspects, late at night when an alcoholic warmth is settled in his stomach and a nicotine haze around his head, that _any_ road leads there, and the real trick is to stay standing still. Whatever the case, he is careful not to push himself beyond his limits more than absolutely necessary, because when you take that step, you quickly find yourself on a very slippery slope. Besides, it is a poor weapon that is forced to injure itself to operate, and while he is not perfect, he knows he is far from poor.

The revelation that he was created, _manufactured_ to be a weapon does not surprise Snake, beyond a passing wonder that science was capable of it. The fact that there are more like him is, likewise, not a surprise, although he will never believe that they are identical. Privately, he thinks that the three of them, Liquid, Solidus and himself, are three points of the triangle that Big Boss held together equally. A charismatic commander, a genius planner, and an expert fighter, each with the abilities of the other, but a strength specific to himself. The only reason he came out on top was because when it came down to it, his skills were the most useful in a direct fight. Snake is not surprised that he killed Big Boss, who should by his logic have had a strong grounding in all three traits, because, after all, no one is perfect.

Snake doesn't think about it much, because the past is the past and unless it's going to spawn a problem for the future it's not worth thinking about, but Shadow Moses was when things changed. Before Shadow Moses he had been a weapon, and he had known it, but he had been a weapon in someone else's hands. It had been someone else's responsibility to point the barrel and pull the trigger. And, perhaps more importantly, it had been someone else's responsibility to know when not to pull it. After Shadow Moses, he had still been a weapon. But now he was in no one else's hands, a real and true loose canon. And, more than that, he suddenly understood just how dangerous he was, what he had inherited. The need to control, the need to destroy, the need to create. He realised then that Outer Heaven was in his mind, and in his blood. He realised that he was a weapon with no safety. And he knew exactly how dangerous that was.

Snake does not care about others. He has no interest in their lives, apart from ways in which they might aid or endanger his own. He thinks he understands love, but he does not consider it as something which affects him. However, he _knows_ how necessary a safety catch is, knows it not with the certainty that humans speak of in regards to emotions, but with a knife's certainty in the strength and sharpness of its blade. So he begins to build himself a safety catch. His concept is vague. He has only one picture in his mind, of someone standing between himself and his goal.

He is hampered by a lack of resources. His first trial is, of course, Meryl, and she seems ideal. She has the steel to stand up to him, and, he thinks, still holds firm in her mind the imagined line between right and wrong which he can see but does not believe. He realises quickly enough, though, that it won't work. She isn't what he needs. She is _too_ strong, in the wrong way. When he needs her, she will stand in his way and challenge him and he will cut her down as easily as a scythe blade through wheat. He can make her into what she needs to be in his mind, but that will be useless if when the time comes she turns herself into a threat. He knows he will eliminate a threat, any threat, regardless of what he has trained himself to believe. And so he leaves, and takes the only option he has left.

A weapon is made for action, not collecting dust in the middle of Alaska, and he finds a use for himself in Philanthropy. He also finds his only chance, which means he has to make it work, no matter how unlikely it seems. The engineer, at least, will not turn himself into a threat. Snake worries initially that, if the time comes, he might not even be there, might hide himself behind his electronics and cloaks and intellect and _fail_. It is his job to see that that doesn't happen.

Snake feels nothing for the engineer, emotions as empty and cold as the surface of an M9. He is easier to live with than Meryl, less stubborn, less prone to fighting, more willing to stand down to avoid conflict. But his interests are more irritating, and he scolds, and there is no sexual attraction between them to either liven things up or smooth them down. Snake knows the engineer is in awe of him, and respects him, and is slightly nervous of him. There is nothing there that he cannot use. And so he begins again to build himself a safety catch.

The trick is not to tie Otacon to him, although that is necessary, and is the first step. He starts small, and sets all his concentration to it so that even when not actively making an effort, he is unconsciously reassuring the engineer with his posture, the set of his back, the position of his hands, the openness of his eyes; and his motions, his smooth careless steps and just slightly awkward movements of his arms carefully designed to disguise the fact that he is in fact as sharp and deadly as any blade. He spins threads of gossamer around the unsuspecting man, and if he breaks one with a too-quick glance he ties five more with a kind smile.

Otacon adjusts quickly, needing companionship, needing a friend, needing to feel needed, and loved. It is no difficulty for Snake to manipulate that, to make himself appear to be all the engineer needs, security, support, someone to talk to, a friend to depend on. The binds thicken, gossamer becoming silk, the engineer coming to initiate conversation on his own, to meet his eyes when they pass in the hall, to smile first. And if Snake snaps one with a sharp word, he spins ten more with a quick pat on the shoulder.

Snake doesn't care for the engineer's shows, and is wary of weakening his eyesight with too much television. But he has no problem with sitting for hours, being used to standing for unpredictable and often extreme amounts of time in one place, and he can watch the wall without the engineer noticing. He has perfect recall, and all it takes is one glance at the screen to memorize the appearance and names of the characters. The rest he can glean from the audio, allowing him to appear to have been paying attention when he was in fact spending none. He is careful not to let Otacon believe that he _likes_ the shows, as that would be both out of character and bring about undesired consequences, but he does convey the sense that he is willing to pay attention to the engineer's interests. His ties are thickening now, to thick string, and if he breaks one with an irritated outburst, he weaves fifteen more with an easy question about their latest show.

He begins to believe that this will work. The engineer considers them friends now, and fear of Snake has been replaced by fear _for_ him so smoothly the soldier almost did not notice the transition. Shyness has died back and familiarity flowered in its place. Otacon speaks to him of all sorts of things, his designs, his shows, his college days, sometimes even, late at night after a few beers, his colleagues at Shadow Moses. Snake's own worries, that the engineer might not be strong enough when- if- the day comes begin to fade as he sees the other man's determination. From the beginning he never held any doubt of Otacon's perception of morality: it is as strong and unwavering as a compass, and Snake is reassured to find that his presence does not act as a magnet. The ties continue to thicken, he thinks. And then there is the tanker.

Snake does not hear things which are not there, and as such does not hear ties begin to snap when Otacon mentions E.E. over the codec. But he knows they are breaking all the same. This mission is ruining two years' worth of work, forcing the issue which Otacon had not yet breached: family. He hears them drifting farther apart, tanker separating them, as Otacon signs off to worry about his sister and his lack of trust of his partner. Snake puts it out of his mind without any effort, but he knows it will need to be revisited again later. He will have to start all over again.

And then there is Ocelot. And then there is Liquid. And then, there is the frigid water of the harbour, all around him. And he thinks, at least he will not have to worry about his failure.

Otacon's hands grab his shoulders, and haul him into a boat rocking with the wind, the waves, and the undertow caused by the sinking tanker trying to suck them down with it. He looks up at the engineer, thin frame emphasized by his soaked clothing, grey eyes full of fear and panic and exhaustion and compassion, and Snake can almost see, before he passes out, the heavy cables binding the engineer to him.

The trick is not to tie Otacon to himself. That is, was, easy. The trick is to tie himself to Otacon. Because while a safety catch is no use if it does not show up to try to stop the weapon, it is also of no use if the weapon can shoot it down. And so he begins to spin again, this time to weave threads across his own sight, to obscure his own vision, to create something which does not exist. He knows what he needs to do, knows the strength of emotion it will take to stop himself, and is unsure if he is capable of it. He has never before tried purposely to weaken himself. He is not surprised at the difficulty. He is surprised at the ease.

It isn't as though he's starting off with a completely empty slate. Even the best of actors cannot for any length of time wear emotions like a cloak while remaining hollow underneath. He has been playing friend to Otacon for two years, and in that time has had to develop a framework of interest and understanding, if not much else. He has always found within himself a capacity for sympathy, even if it is completely detached from any stronger sentiments. He can at least rely upon that.

The problem is that while it is easy enough to manipulate others to see things which are not truly there in him, he cannot cause them to change themselves to attract him. He therefore has to change himself, find an interest, find an attraction. In the two weeks immediately after the tanker, when they are moving from motel to motel in search of a more permanent apartment, he watches the engineer with an intensity he had not before. He learns the man's habits, not the usual daily habits of favoured coffee or preferred eating times or shoe-tying techniques or shower length. These were things he knew by heart after a week of living with the other man.

He watches with sharp eyes instead for smaller details. The way Otacon's pupils contract just slightly when he looks at his computer screen, grey irises lightened to the colour of shadows on snow. The way the engineer's pulse quickens the tiniest degree when he stands, flickering in the hollow of his throat. The way he strokes the frame of his laptop with tiny motions of his thumb while he waits for pages to loads, and then immediately moves his hand slightly to the left to sit centred above the mouse pad. The way his eyes crinkle with his first sip of coffee before he's adjusted to the bitterness, and then relax as the caffeine hits his blood stream. Snake memorises all of them, and for each one he notes he soon finds another to replace it. He thinks that the more interest he takes, the more he has a chance of building some sort of feeling.

At the end of two weeks they find an apartment in San Francisco, a one room crap-hole overlooking the T. Snake makes spaghetti with tomato sauce out of a jar. After dinner, they sit down, and Otacon tells him everything. About his grandfather, the World War Two nuclear engineer. About his father, the proud genius who didn't have a lot of time for his family. About his step-sister, who made him brush her hair and give her piggy-backs and play house. About his step-mother, who shattered all bounds of trust, cracking the engineer and shattering his world. About the destruction of his family and his fleeing to college. Somewhere in the back of his mind he is thinking about gossamer threads. But mostly what he's thinking is, Christ.

Things are different now. Otacon sees no barriers between them. They talk about anything, really anything, and Snake finds that he's having to force himself less and less to answer the engineer's personal questions. They sit on the couch, drinking beers, and Snake talks in a slow, contemplative voice about Outer Heaven and Zanzibar Land while the back of his mind is weaving gently, looping invisible threads around the two of them.

With the revelation, brought on by the tanker, that there is something big going on, Snake and Otacon begin to work together more off the battlefield, Snake helping to sort data and try to make sense of it. They sit all day, and sometimes into the night, in the biggest room of whatever apartment they're in, on the ground or the couch or at the table depending on the room. Otacon reads out numbers and Snake writes them down, or gives locations and lets Snake mark them on the map, or types while Snake dictates. And at the end of the day, when they are exhausted and can't make sense of the instructions on a microwave dinner- never mind an international terrorist plot- they wander to whatever corner of the room isn't taken up by their work, too tired to talk, too tired to _think_, and just sit. And Snake traces the grey strands in the engineer's dark hair and the slope of his thin shoulders and the line of his jaw with his sharp eyes, and pays no attention to the strings being woven.

They work like this for a month, running themselves into the ground, each man both horse and master, whipping himself steadily towards collapse. They move across state lines for the third time, from Wyoming to Colorado, truck stuffed full with all their gear like some kind of perverse Thanksgiving turkey, with RPGs and automatic weapons and computers instead of bread and apple slices. The apartment is on the fourth floor of the building, and the elevator is out of commission. Snake carries the greater portion of their equipment up, and all the weaponry, and leaves the last load to Otacon while he begins to secrete their illegal arms away temporarily in the back of closets and under beds. When his partner doesn't show up ten minutes later he goes looking for him in the stairwell and finds him unconscious on the third floor landing, a pair of duffle bags lying on the ground next to him.

They tone it down after that. No more than eight hours a day of work. Proper meals, at least two and preferably three a day. Exercise for both of them, not just Snake, and he sees to it that the engineer learns at least the rudiments of self defence. He worries about attack, about Otacon being caught off guard and taken or killed while he isn't there. He worries the engineer is working too hard. He worries about the cold his partner develops soon after the move until it goes away, although of course he shows none of this. He gives no consideration to the binding.

After their work is done in the evenings, they continue to sit together, although with their shorter work days the sitting is no longer a silent act of exhaustion, but a time for company and chatting and living. Sometimes they watch Otacon's shows, sometimes movies, sometimes they just talk. Sometimes, they just sit. They've already talked about everything. They don't need words anymore, hardly even need glances. Snake can almost read the engineer's thoughts from his posture, from the tilt of his head or the direction of his gaze. It gives him a heady, warm feeling, to know someone so well. It isn't much of a surprise to him when he leans over and kisses Otacon. It isn't much of a surprise when the engineer responds. He does not notice the cables.

The Big Shell should have been both a confirmation and a warning. But Snake has completed his mission fully, as always, and when he sees Hal again after things calm down, he feels only relief and compassion. The tiny part of himself pulling the strings has since woven itself away behind a thick screen, and to the rest of him there is no longer any difference between attraction and manipulation, between real and false emotions. Which was, even if he didn't consider it, his goal to begin with.

Snake is a weapon. He knows this. He's not a perfect weapon, and he knows this too. Hal told him, during Shadow Moses, that he purposefully built a character flaw into Rex, a fatal weakness. Snake doesn't think he's less perfect now than he was, and he doesn't think that he's built in a character flaw. He doesn't think about it at all, in fact.

What the part of him pulling the strings knows is that if that kink in his genes which drove Big Boss, and later Liquid and Solidus to burn a swath through wherever they happened to be and try to create their own Outer Heaven kicks in, there will now be someone there to stop him. Someone he won't shoot down. Someone he _can't_ shoot down. Deep down, in the middle of the tangled skein of threads, Snake knows that no weapon is less perfect for a safety catch.


End file.
